


if you say stay

by fractions



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fitz-centric, One Shot, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 18:55:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1754621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractions/pseuds/fractions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To think, he believed that sacrificing his life to save hers would prove to be some great confession, the only thing that could prove to her that he loved her, the only thing to do when the words failed him. But she’d done it before—more than once. She’d already proven it, and he’s always been struggling to keep up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you say stay

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the gameofcards weekly writing challenge on LJ. This week's prompt was "stay."

When he wakes up, she’s gone. There are traces of her still: an open book pressed in her empty seat. He knows she’s been there, has vague recollections of the others, a revolving door of his teammates. 

They say that sometimes, unconscious people can hear. Fitz could see, even before he could open his eyes. Jemma’s tired face, red-rimmed eyes. She sits at his bedside and stares at the pages of her book; he can’t make out the title but the pages rarely turn. She sees the words but makes no sense of them. Sometimes she tries to read aloud but the words catch in her throat; other times she tries to talk to him about their time at the Academy, about their failed pranks on Skye, about lab experiments and gadgets. 

She never says the things he wants to hear.

May and Coulson and Skye take turns to visit, and even Trip has come once or twice. He sees them—imagines them—while Jemma sits cross-legged on the chair in the corner, smiles when spoken to, _yes I’m fine thank you no I can’t think of anything I’d need yes I had lunch earlier_. No one speaks of Ward. Their faces tell the story of betrayal and Fitz can’t open his eyes to face it. 

He has no concept of time. He has no idea how long he’s been unconscious. He feels no pain in the arm pulled tight to his chest: the pain is elsewhere. He regrets what he said to Jemma, not because it was untrue but because it was maudlin, self-pitying, manipulative. Because he thought perhaps, in the moment of their deaths, she would return his words: but the words never came. To think, he believed that sacrificing his life to save hers would prove to be some great confession, the only thing that could prove to her that he loved her, the only thing to do when the words failed him. But she’d done it before—more than once. She’d already proven it, and he’s always been struggling to keep up. 

He doesn’t know what love is—doesn’t know how to express it. Neither does she. In some capacity he knows that they’re going about it in the wrong way. Love is not death but life; not leaving someone behind but taking them with you. She had taken him to S.H.I.E.L.D. (and he’d followed, he had always followed), and she’d pulled him from the box, and she’d sat hour upon hour by his bedside. But she’d also tried to jump from a plane, tried to shield him from a grenade. Why does each expression of love come with a consequence? Why are the times they are together—breathing—not enough?

He doesn’t hear her enter; he’s too wrapped in his own thoughts. When she shuffles into his range of vision he manages a smile. Hers is bright, tears catch in the corners of her eyes and she says, “Hey.”

“Hey back,” he says. 

She rushes around the room, checking charts and vitals and murmuring things to him, to herself. She mentions going to get the rest of the team, but he stops her, holding his open hand off the bed. She laces her fingers with his, lowers herself on the edge of the chair. 

“I should—we should—there are things—Fitz—” She tries too many sentences at once. 

He shakes his head and runs his thumb across her knuckles. He feels his eyes begin to close but he can still see her face, concern mixed with apprehension—she’s never been nervous around him before. 

“Do you need something?” 

He clears his throat. “Just stay. Stay.” 

He wonders if that’s enough.


End file.
